“He does not wish to be away from his office for long. The train for Preston leaves shortly after breakfast, and he intends to be on it. If I am to accept his offer, I need to be as well.”
She had not thought about the possibility that his ambitions would take him away from Rafton. She ought to have. Rafton was agricultural—vast expanses of fields, grand estates, farmland. There was nothing here for a man of business. Still, her heart had been ill prepared for the blow he had just dealt.
Her feet continued to move her forward, though she hardly noted the world around her. “You will be so far away.”
For the first time, he seemed to sense her unease. He stopped walking and faced her. “We will be apart for a time,” he acknowledged. “That cannot be helped. My uncle will give me a room in his house, but I will not have a home of my own for some time. I will work hard and learn all I can, earning my way until I am independent enough to build a life for myself.”
“Our life?” she pressed.
He took her face gently in his hands. “Our life,” he repeated. “I love you, my dear.”
“What will I do without you here?” She posed the question more to herself than to him, yet he was the one who answered.
“You will fill your days as you always have. When I return on visits to my family, we will see each other again, in this spot.” He dropped his hands to hers and held them reassuringly. “You will continue to watch the train and imagine far-off places. And I will work as hard as I know how so we need not be apart long. And I will yearn for you and miss you and dream of the day we will be together again.”
She took a fortifying breath, squared her shoulders, and looked up once more into his beloved face. “I wish it were permissible for a gentleman and lady to write to one another. I should dearly like to know how you are and have that connection to you.”
Were there an understanding between them, an engagement, they would be permitted that luxury.
“Allow me to raise my position in the world so your parents will accept a situation in which we would be permitted letters.” Such sincerity shone in his eyes. “As it stands now, they would reject my request.”
That was likely true, though she wanted to believe that his uncle’s offer of junior partnership and his expectations of a fine and stable income, coupled with his family’s place amongst the gentry, would be enough for her parents to grant a furtherance of their relationship. Still, she understood they were tiptoeing those bounds as it was, meeting each day and sharing such personal confidences. It likely was not wise to press harder.
“I can be patient,” she vowed. “A person can endure a great many things for true love.”
“How fortunate I am to have the love of so dear and wonderful a lady.” He kissed her fingers, as he so often did. “I will not keep you waiting long.”
He pulled her into his embrace and held her as the wind danced around them. She committed to memory the feel of his coat, of his arms wrapped about her, the warmth of him, the scent of his soap. She could, indeed, be patient, for this was a man worth waiting for, however long the wait might prove to be.
Chapter Two
Five years later
“I understand you’ve refused Mr. Baskon,” Mother said without looking up from her needlepoint. “Again.”
“I do not love him, Mother.” Carina did not even like him.
The objection only increased the frustration on her mother’s face. She lowered her sewing to her lap. “You are twenty-three years old, Carina. There are other things to consider.”
Carina maintained the air of calm serenity she had perfected over the last five years. “I have also taken into consideration the fact that his late wife’s misery was obvious and well-known to all in the neighborhood. I should not like to live the life she did.”
Mother’s expression hardened. “You would do well not to cast aspersions on the character of a gentleman of his importance.”
“He is not important to me.” She would stand firm on this matter.
Mother sighed, her shoulders drooping. “I thought you had put this foolishness behind you. Five years is time enough—”
“I long ago abandoned my hopes for Mr. Ambrose,” she insisted. “I have no expectations in that quarter, neither am I nursing a broken heart. I was wounded at the time, but I am no longer pained.”
That was not entirely true. Grant Ambrose had fractured her heart, and the fissures remained. Those deep scars were not, however, the reason for her rejection of Mr. Baskon. Though Mother objected to gossip, all of Rafton considered the most recent Mrs. Baskon, to whom Mr. Baskon had been married only a year upon her death, to have been a tragic figure. He was a hard and unfeeling man who had made her life a misery. Everyone knew it, whether or not they spoke of it openly. Carina would not resign herself to that fate.
“Perhaps your father can talk sense into you.” Mother turned in her chair and faced Father, who sat not far distant in his own high-backed chair on the opposite side of the sitting room fireplace, watching, listening.
“I doubt you will receive offers from any other gentlemen.” Father spoke by way of warning but without the warmth or concern a daughter might hope for. Carina had long since grown accustomed to that. Her parents’ disappointment in her had become palpable over the years.
“I know, Father.”
His gaze narrowed. “And the prospect of spinsterhood does not concern you?”
“Not as much as the current alternative.”
His mouth pursed, pulling his narrow mustache down sharply. He and Mother exchanged sharp, knowing looks. Mother nodded. So did he. Then Father turned his gaze on Carina once more. The hardness she saw in his eyes sent a shiver down her arms. While he had never truly been cruel, he could be unrelenting when he was determined to get his way.
“Your Great-Aunt Chadwick suffered a fall a few days ago.”
Carina did not know why he’d undertaken such a drastic change of topic, but she was decidedly wary. She knew little of her great-aunt beyond what her father had told her over the years. She was cantankerous, difficult, and generally unpersonable. The only thing she’d done that any of the family remotely approved of was never visiting them.
“She is in need of someone to look after her and see to her needs while she recovers,” Father said. “You will be traveling to Wilkington on the train tomorrow.”
“Wilkington?”
“Where she lives,” Father clarified. “If you are so enamored of spinsterhood, you will be excited at this opportunity to observe it firsthand.”
“I did not say I was enamored—”
“Any no-longer-young lady who would turn down repeated offers of marriage must be eager for it,” Mother insisted. “Now you can, for the length of the summer, go live the life you are seeking.”
“That is not—”
“The train leaves in the morning.” Father raised his paper, ending their conversation.
Carina turned to her mother but could see in an instant there would be no help from that quarter. Her exile had, it seemed, been planned before this moment. Her parents intended to change her mind and punish her in the undertaking.
Very well. She had learned these past five years to look out for herself, to be her own advocate. It was a lesson she had learned in painful ways, but one for which she was grateful. She might not have emerged whole of heart, but she was stronger.
“If acting as the poor relation and lady’s companion to my great-aunt is the price I must pay to avoid marriage to an unkind man, then that is a forfeiture I will willingly make.” Carina stood, not allowing hurt or uncertainty to show in her expression or posture. “You, my own parents, may not value me enough to want what is best for me, but I do.”
A look of shock bordering on horror immediately crossed Mother’s face. “That is not at all—”
“I shall begin packing so that I will be ready to flee to my safe haven as early tomorrow as possible.”
She left with all the dignity she co
uld summon. Father’s voice echoed from the room before she’d gone far enough to avoid overhearing it.
“The life Aunt Chadwick lives will cure Carina of this stubbornness,” he said. “She will see the wisdom in seizing what opportunities she has.”
“Mr. Baskon?” Mother at least sounded a little hesitant.
“Whatever opportunities she has.”
* * *
Carina stood on the train platform the next morning with an unshakable sense of dread. She had not allowed herself to dream of far-off places and adventurous train rides in nearly three years. She had clung to those childish dreams for a long while, but eventually life had required her to mature, to set aside fantasies for rational expectations.
“You will watch the trains and dream of adventures,” Grant had said on the day he’d left her behind. She had actually believed that for a time.
But he hadn't come back. He’d sent a few notes and messages by way of his sister, but those had quickly become fewer and further between. Within six months, those notes had stopped altogether.
After another six months, she’d ceased imagining herself boarding a train in this very station, bound for Preston. She’d eventually stopped imagining anything.
Dreams die, she’d discovered. And the dreamers move on.
The train had arrived some minutes ago, and her trunk had already been brought on board. Yet there she stood, paralyzed. She had never before been on a train. And, though she hated to admit as much, she was afraid.
She feared neither the journey nor the massive machine that would carry her to her destination. She feared what awaited her at the end of the tracks. She had only ever heard her great-aunt described as a terror. Perhaps Mr. Baskon would not have been a worse alternative.
But memories of the late Mrs. Baskon—the third to bear that name—haunted her. She had been nearly Carina’s age, sweet-natured and friendly. The poor lady had grown more withdrawn, isolated, and miserable. Carina did not remember the first two Mrs. Baskons, they having passed on many years earlier. Had they been equally unhappy?
No. Mr. Baskon was not the better choice, no matter how difficult or troubling her great-aunt was. She might not be bubbling over with happiness in Wilkington, but she could not imagine the temporary situation awaiting her there would be as awful as the permanent misery of a life with Mr. Baskon.
“The train is boarding, miss,” a porter announced, waving her forward.
One foot in front of the other. Had she been making this journey five years ago, no matter the destination, she would have been overjoyed, brimming with excitement. All she felt in this moment was tired.
The din of voices inside struck her like hail in a winter storm. It was not the soft rustle she’d always imagined. The long, narrow passage was dim and uninviting. She peeked inside compartment after compartment, hoping to find one empty where she might be alone with her thoughts.
At last she came upon one. She stepped inside and set her small carpetbag on the sparsely pa
dded seat before placing herself beside it. She took a breath, then another.
A cloud of white and gray rushed past the window. She knew it on the instant, having watched trains pull away from the platform and charge down the tracks. The engine had released its first puff of steam. She could not help thinking back on her eighteen-year-old self and how majestic she’d always found that sight.
The train lurched forward, pulling itself as if fighting a backward push. One jolt at a time, it picked up speed. The station slid from view, then the stand of trees just beyond it. Soon, the fields were visible from the windows of her compartment. The scenery moved faster and faster until the train settled into a rhythm.
Imagine far-off places. She could hear Grant Ambrose’s voice so clearly in her mind, could feel his warm embrace. Heaven help her, thinking back on those magical times still set her heart aflutter.
Mr. Baskon was not an option she would consider, but neither would she wallow away her life daydreaming of past hopes and expectations. This time with her great-aunt was meant to serve as a cautionary experience, showing her that a husband, any husband, was better than spinsterhood. She meant to make it a learning endeavor of a different kind.
Great-Aunt Chadwick was an unhappy woman, made miserable by her circumstances. Carina would watch, see what caused her suffering and unhappiness, and simply resolve to approach her own life of solitude in precisely the opposite way. She would be happy. One way or another, she would be.
Chapter Three
Wilkington, Lancashire
Grant inspected the last crates of cotton. The quality was acceptable, but they had not received the full shipment. He eyed his shipping foreman.
“We’re short, Cobb.”
Cobb gave a quick nod. “I’ve noted it. Are we to accept the shipment and reduce our payment or leave it in hold until the rest arrives?”
Leaving it in hold would send a stronger message to the supplier, as they’d have to wait for payment, but the factory needed cotton. Without the shipment, production would stall. Curse the suppliers, they knew as much.
“Tally what we did receive,” Grant said. “We’ll not pay for anything that didn’t arrive.”
Cobb’s attention turned fully to the crates once more. He could be relied upon; Grant didn’t employ anyone who couldn’t be.
Grant stepped away from the shipment and paced down the station platform. A passenger train had arrived on the opposite track. Wilkington was a busy enough stop that people would soon be swarming about. He chose a bench against the wall of the ticket office. He’d wait until the platform was calm again before making his way back to his offices. He needed a moment to think through the situation.
Their supplier had been unreliable of late. The agreed-upon amounts were not consistently delivered and didn’t always arrive on time. The prices Grant was paying were lower than any he’d found elsewhere, but it might be time to consider paying more for cotton he could depend on. His final product required raw material.
He rubbed his forehead and took a few deep breaths. His mill was profitable. Their fabric was good quality and sought after. Yet it was a struggle. Nothing had run as smoothly as his uncle had expected it to. If this factory, a smaller one than the others Uncle owned, proved too much for him to manage, he could not hope to be entrusted with anything grander or more significant. All his hopes of taking over the entirety of the family business would be dashed.
It had seemed quite simple five years earlier. He’d been rather naive, truth be told. He would simply step into this new life with no difficulties or delays. His situation would be stable and enviable. He’d soon enough have a wife, a family, a home of his own.
Five years later, he was still living in rooms above his office at the mill, still trying to prove himself to his uncle.
“Mr. Ambrose, what a pleasure to see you.”
He knew well that voice and hearing it eased some of his doubts. Miss Beaumont was the only daughter of a successful merchant in Wilkington. The Beaumonts had taken a liking to him early on, treating him as the success he hoped to be. Their confidence had more than once bolstered his own.
He rose and offered Miss Beaumont a bow of acknowledgment, then offered another to Mrs. Beaumont, who stood beside her. “What brings you to the station today?”
“We have only just journeyed back from Birmingham,” Mrs. Beaumont said.
“Where your parents live,” he remembered.
Mrs. Beaumont’s pleasure at his recollection of their previous conversations blossomed on her face. “I believe your parents live in Rafton.”
“They do.”
“We passed by there on our way home—a very small station.”
“It is a very small town.” The same aching fondness that always gripped him at the thought of Rafton seized him once more. “But a very dear one.”
Miss Beaumont set her hand lightly on his arm. “If only you had come with us, we might have disembarked and spent a little time there.
You could have seen your home again.”
His immediate response was to agree that such a thing would have been ideal, but then, as always happened, his mind and heart retreated from the idea. He could not go back home, not truly. It would not be the same place it once was. Too much had changed.
“Was yours an uneventful journey?” he asked the Beaumont ladies.
Mrs. Beaumont listed the discomforts she’d endured, while her daughter countered those light complaints with a list of pleasurable experiences. They were enjoyable companions, both for one another and for those fortunate enough to make their acquaintance. Grant had valued their company from the time Mr. Beaumont first undertook the introductions. Wilkington had been a far less lonely place from that moment on.
The platform buzzed with activity, travelers boarding the train, those newly arrived searching out their parties or winding their way toward the street beyond. Grant hadn’t always found the commotion of the station uncomfortable, but that feeling had grown more pronounced over the years. Neither did he care for the sound of the train whistle, no matter how distant. It echoed inside him, hollowing him out and rendering him as empty as a bone-dry well.
But trains were necessary, especially to one whose livelihood depended on the goods they delivered. He could endure it.
Again, he felt the delicate weight of Miss Beaumont’s hand on his. “You do not care for the train station. I have noticed that before.”
He pulled himself together enough to acknowledge her observation with a brief nod.
“Why is that?” she asked. “It cannot be the crowd, as you walk about your factory and the busy streets of Wilkington without difficulty.”
“It is not the crowd.”
“The train, then?” Mrs. Beaumont guessed. “Some people find them disconcerting.”
He could actually smile at that. “I am not frightened of trains.” He glanced over at Cobb, standing beside the shipping crates, waiting. “When the platform is crowded, I am unable to see to business matters as efficiently as I would prefer.”
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